Which Would It Be Tonight
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Total Slash F/M and M/M  quite detailed .OC/S but don't worry, she doesn't matter least of all to Sherlock.S/J romantic  and sexual .  Sherlock has done a lot of hands on research but being in love makes it better.Don't own-yada yada. Very M-been warned.
1. Which Would It Be Tonight

"Which would it be tonight?" Sherlock thought as he scanned the bodies through the humid air of the wine bar. "Male or female?"

The song, only vaguely audible over the roar of the crowd, was throaty and dark, which suited his mood. He vaguely recalled some scandal with the singer, police involvement. Drugs, probably. Not relevant.

Ah, that would do nicely.

She was tall, which was nice, as it made certain things more comfortable. Slightly buxom, with a tiny waist that she set off with a peplum suit in dark plum. The slim skirt had some interesting pleating that took it beyond the boring pencil skirts that most business women seemed to wear but wasn't outrageous enough to suggest creative, fashion or entertainment. So creative taste in a non-creative industry then, expensive too. Unlike most of the people at the bar she wasn't texting frantically or broadcasting half a conversation to all of London. Her phone was on the bar at her hand, but she barely glanced at it. Confident enough not to look busy-good. The phone case was simple, black, but with a funny Japanese charm attached. Slight adolescent issues despite financial success. Probably some daddy issues. That or she had a lover back in Japan. No, definitely daddy issues. She was scanning the crowd too. She certainly had her share of admirers, but she was deflecting them all, easily. Picky was always good. What industry? He caught her looking at the bar television at the stock quotes. Hmm…worked in The City. Drinking what appeared at this distance to be a scotch and soda. Martinis and mojitos were so trendy. Had a cat—Siamese by the looks of the faint hairs on the hem of her skirt and on her simple Coach bag. Came here often, knew just how to sit on the tricky bar seats, but often left alone. Her hair was dark and wavy and pulled back in a soft chignon. He could almost feel it's richness in his hands.

Sherlock turned on the smile that he knew had an affect on most women and certain men. A slightly goofy, out of his depth smile, but with an ironic twist; and strode through the crowd.

"A Sidecar, please," he yelled to the harried bartender. If this one fell through, the bartender would work as well. She lived with two flat mates, though, so that was tricky. The tiny room he had at the moment was not really conducive to what he had in mind. Liked it rough, too, which suited his mood, but she wouldn't get out until late and he knew Lestrade was coming by in the early morning with that theft that was just trending. Unless it was a quickie in the back alley when she went on break. No, he really wanted more time than that tonight. Back to the financial one then.

He turned to her as if she was an afterthought. That should get under her radar. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." Pleasant smell: lemon verbena with a gardenia undertone. Custom made. "Don't you work at Barclays? I think I met you in some of those merger talks? Oh, I can't remember exactly when. So many deals being made these days, you know."

He smiled-disarmingly, he was told.

"I think I remember, but I would have been there on the other side of the table," she smiled. So he had it right.

"Sherlock," he said, holding out his hand as much as was possible in the tight space of the bar, his elbow bent awkwardly behind him.

She laughed and tried to do likewise, ending up sort of dangling her hand at her eye level. He tugged on it but let his finger trail against hers ever so slightly. He also parted his lips. Now she knew he was playing, but she didn't know if he was worth it.

The song had changed to something treacly and irritating.

"Carolyn, with a y," she said. Well, that was annoying. All those pretentious names with silly changes in letters. He let it slide.

"I've never been here," he said in a low voice, causing her to lean towards him to hear. He leaned in as well, as if accidently, just close enough to breathe against her. He had also found that this tone of voice was effective. "Sorry," he mouthed as he pulled back slightly. "Didn't mean to yell in your ear."

"Oh, it's alright," she smiled, "a bit loud."

"We could try somewhere else. I know a pub a little ways away with tables."

She was a little flushed and he thought she was probably ovulating, although it was hard to be sure at this juncture, but he was seldom wrong.

"You know," she smiled, "I live just a little away from here. It would certainly be quieter."

"What," he said, leaning closer again. This time he made sure that she could tell that he was smelling her, the perfume and a little of her own musk.

"I don't want you to think I normally take men back to my apartment, but we practically know each other."

"I know what you mean," he said, grinning again and tilting his head down slightly, as if suddenly shy.

She loved it. He could tell. She thought he wasn't going to be aggressive, but she would like it when he was.

She swept her phone into her purse with a practiced movement, and surprisingly took his hand to lead him out.

Once in the cool air she leaned into his chest slightly as he hailed a cab. This time she was smelling him. The fine wool of his coat, the clean scent of the simple soap he wore. That too was designed to convey a certain innocence. No cologne, no aftershave. Just simple Sherlock. Sometimes men found that too intimate, too raw, but never women.

The taxi came and they climbed in. He let her go first, of course. The few women he knew would have been surprised to see him behave in such a gentlemanly way. He hardly noticed whether women expected it or not in his daily life. But of course, he didn't really think of the policewomen or female detectives as women, and this, this was transport, but it might as well be quality.

In the cab, she tumbled against him slightly, her legs crossed so that her thigh and knee pressed against him more firmly.

"You know, I…" he began, but then leaned into her hair, sniffing deeply. "Sorry, I just really like your smell, lemons, and something else. Floral?"

She laughed throatily and he leaned down to meet her upturned lips. He kept it chaste at first, just a gentle pressure with his lips. Then pushing a little harder, lips parting only slightly.

She pulled back. "We're here."

God, this was close to the bar. He'd have to be careful not to come around here too much in the next few months.


	2. Much Practice

Once inside the second floor flat—modest, elegant, a sizeable three rooms for London, done in a simple grey and blue—they were on each other. His coat dropped expertly to the floor. He'd worked it down his arms on the way up the stairs. Oh, yes, she was definitely ovulating, he could smell it on her now. This time his kiss was confident. Forceful, even. His tongue flicking out to catch her lips, hers reciprocating. She was already at his shirt buttons. And he was hard and aching. He really needed this tonight. He moved her back into the apartment, past the kitchenette. Something brushed his ankle. The cat. Blue point. He pulled away to lean down and pick up the cat, and purr at her.

She, of course, found this adorable.

He actually liked animals very much, a fact that would have surprised many. Animals were so easy. You acted a certain way, and they acted a certain way. They acted with natural instincts, killing when necessary, not over adultery or inheritance or other petty things. Although, he knew, they sometimes killed just because they could. It flickered through his mind that he could probably kill and get away with it, if he wanted. Just to see if he could. He pushed it aside.

"Oh, you like Persia? Many men-, or, er people don't." He saw she was out of her jacket, down to a silk, lace-trimmed camisole.

Persia? The cat wasn't Persian any more than he was. Another strike, but then it wouldn't really matter soon, would it?

He put down the cat. "I like you better," he growled. And they were on each other again. Tongues in humid mouths, fingernails along his bare chest. He slid a hand up her skirt along her thigh. Ooo, stockings, hadn't quite expected that. This was going to be fun.

She was going to take her with him to the sofa. He wasn't having that. Sherlock had had sex over the arms of settees, in chairs, in tubs, in showers, against walls and on floors. Fun as they were, with that extra frission of the unusual, in the end, the bed was better for what he had in mind.

"No, bed," he whispered. "I want to be able to spread you out."

He shucked his shirt as he stepped into the room and started working on his belt. She tossed the camisole, unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, released the silken mass of hair. She started to work out of her bra, but he stopped her. "No, let me."

With his arm around her he lowered her to the bed and kissed his way down her throat to her breasts. He expertly unlatched the bra at the back (Agent Provocateur, but unfussy) and lifted it from her breasts. He explored each one with his tongue.

He wasn't really a breast man. He wasn't sure what he was. He didn't really have a type. Some things worked better, like being tall, or if a man, being as slim as he was. Dark, light, full-figured, boyish. Masculine, androgynous. He'd tried everything at some point. He viewed it like dinner. Sometimes you wanted Thai, sometimes Italian (and he'd had both of those in bed as well). And sometimes you just needed to eat something, anything.

He tongued lower, undid the clasps of the belt and slipped the tiny knickers from her hips. Then, just for interest he redid the belt. She wanted cunnilingus, but she wasn't going to get it, not yet, anyway. He stood and slid out of his pants in a fluid movement. No underwear, of course. Superfluous. But pulled the condoms out of his pocket before dropping his pants. He made sure that she saw that he had several. He also noted that she had hers in her nightstand drawer. Well, that was good, in case they used all of his.

Mycroft might despair of Sherlock having any kind of knack for self-preservation, but a) he didn't want to pass on his genes, not ever and b) well, there were so many diseases out there. It would be so embarrassing to catch one. Mycroft would be furious, as well as never letting him live it down. Thoughts of his brother deflated him a little, which was all for the good. He liked to be in control at all times. Bed was no different. Just physical responses which could and should be managed.

He slipped on a condom and moved over where she lay splayed on the bed. Legs open. But she actually surprised him, pushing him back and lowering herself onto him. Sherlock let her settle into her own rhythm at first, then joined her, alternating her thrusts with his so they were undulating together. He pulled her down to him to get at her breasts and slipped his fingers between her legs to finger her clit. Oh, she did like that. She was so close. He backed away, settling back, holding her hips still, so that he was rigid inside her for a moment and then another. Then he lifted her slightly and pulled her down hard. She came with a desperate cry. But he didn't let her rest, working her to another orgasm in a matter of minutes. Normally he liked to prolong this, but he really had waited too long. With one sinuous moment he turned them both over and ground himself into her fiercely, staring hard into her eyes, then thrusting rapidly until he spasmed with four sharp thrusts and came. He fell to one side, gasping.

It was like the time he passed out while working at home having forgotten to eat for 36 hours. Or started hallucinating from lack of sleep. One had physical needs, however much one tried to ignore them, and one had to listen to them from time to time.

"Oh, my God," she gasped, "that was amazing. Where, where did you learn those…things?"

"Much practice, my dear," he said, grinning wickedly. Nothing like his charming and goofy grin from earlier. Sharp and v-shaped and a little cruel.

After a few minutes rest he decided to oblige her. Sliding down her body to her sex. Tonguing her with flicks and strokes, pulsing fingers inside her, probing for key point; her still stockinged legs running up his back and shoulders. He pushed her to the edge and back repeatedly for 20 minutes or so, until finally letting her come to a shattering multiple orgasm that left her coiled on her side, her hand cupping her pubis, breathing hard for a few minutes.

She leaned over him and returned the favor with a little fellatio, but he quickly realized she was rather rubbish at it. So many people seemed to think if you simply got it all down your throat and slid up and down a little that was it. He pulled her head up by her hair and roughly turned her over, forcing on a condom and entering her from behind. Holding her thick hair with one hand and reaching around her to stroke her as he thrust into her. She groaned, pushing against him desperately. Coming again against him twice before he finally came and released her.

Sweat soaked and spent they dozed, barely touching. They had a few more rounds, drifting into a drowsing state between, before he realized that it was 4 in the morning. He slid from the bed and fumbled into his clothes. He took in the apartment for the first time. It was in a dark burgundy with white trim—striking. He saw a small shelf in her bookshelf covered in miniature horses. Daddy issues, definitely.

She rolled over and looked at him with sated eyes. "I have to see you again. That was the best sex I've ever had."

He smiled, this time, the final time, enigmatically, and said, "Perhaps," but, of course, he had no intention of that.

He left picking up his coat as he went, whistling that absurd song from the bar, which he, of course, knew by heart having heard it once.


	3. Come at Once, Utmost Urgency

Sherlock was distracted. He hated being distracted. He seldom was, and when he was it was generally because he was sick, facing a betrayal of his body that disturbed him. Was he sick? He didn't think so, and yet, he could not focus. He would have said he was bored, but none of his usual remedies seemed to help. Going to seven nicotine patches was probably a bad idea, as John would remind him.

John Watson. His friend John. Who right this minute was upstairs, getting dressed to go out somewhere. Probably with a girl. John and Sarah had settled into a comfortable friendship which still irked him. John was HIS friend. His only friend. Other people couldn't share him like that. Could they?

He lay, coiled up and tense, facing the sofa back. Willing himself not to turn when John came down. John was going to wear the cardi-vest, he always did on these occasions. And he would take the cane.

He liked touching John. He liked John to be near him. To talk to him, to even soothe him. In a way he had never liked. Never allowed, except perhaps Mummy, long long ago.

John Watson came down the stairs and looked into the sitting room. Sherlock wasn't sleeping and John knew it. And, he knew that Sherlock knew he knew it. He was probably sulking. Well, that was his own damn problem.

Only, John couldn't quite let go of the fact that it was his problem as well. John didn't want his friend to sulk. He didn't want him to have his back to him. John wasn't quite sure what he wanted.

He vaguely knew that other flat mates did not do shopping for each other (well, he did the shopping for Sherlock), did not cook for each other beyond a cup of tea if they were having one too. Didn't fret like a parent over their friends, and certainly didn't go chasing through London in the middle of the night at the drop of a text:

**Come at once, utmost urgency. Just get in the cab that will be there by the time you are dressed.**

**SH**

Other friends were like he and Sarah. Comfortable, respecting of each other's space, silence and groceries.

But other friends were not Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Who talked to a skull, secured bills to the mantle with a knife and ignored them. Who shot holes in walls for the fun of it, because he was bored. And who went racing all over London, needing assistance.

John watched the rigid planes of Sherlock's back, held by determination no doubt. The soft, dark curls spread a bit against the arm of the chair and he stared fascinated by it in some way that he could not define.

Was he, could he possibly be "crushing on" Sherlock Homes? That was impossible. John liked girls. Rather a lot, though he didn't really have much success with them. Half the girls he'd ever known had been the ones that fancied his sister.

And yet, this felt like those times. The times when he saw an impossibly beautiful girl, or even a simply pretty girl with the features he liked. Or in a new relationship. That warm feeling of delight when they were around, when they complimented him. Or touched him. Staring into Sherlock's penetrating stare when Sherlock had spun him around and clutched him about the head that night at the tracks had nearly overwhelmed him. With what exactly? Elation? Triumph? Joy?

He realized he'd been staring at Sherlock's back for sometime. And that Sherlock was probably relishing every minute of his attention. Sherlock who could be such a child sometimes—vain, arrogant, petulant, fretful, demanding, selfish, thoughtless and just plain rude.

He had just decided to turn and go out when a voice from the couch said, "John?"

John turned back.

"John, don't go out. We can get takeaway…John, don't go out…please."

All of this was rather said to the back of the sofa, so John wasn't quite sure he'd heard correctly. Was the great Sherlock Holmes actually asking him to stay? AND saying please about it. Not to go running about London being beaten and threatened as Sherlock's idea of fun, but to stay quietly in?

"Well, I could," he said, "only I've just got changed." He was only going the local. It wasn't really a commitment or anything.

"I like you in that sweater. You can leave it on," said the voice from the sofa.


	4. He WAS Sick

So he wasn't going out with a girl. Sherlock found himself grinning. Now that really was stupid.

Could he really desire John? John who was not tall, not slim, not distinctive in any way, but his John. Surely it was just like a teddy bear. Well, alright, not really, but comfortable. He was comfortable with John. Which wasn't desire. But he'd never been comfortable with anyone before, not even Mummy, except perhaps Mycroft when they had been friends and had worked together on things. Before Mycroft went off into government, and left him.

But he did like John in certain pullovers and when he was looking at something, typing at that damned blog, for instance and he didn't know anyone was looking. And the way his eyes got even bigger at things Sherlock said.

He rolled over.

John came over. Of course he was in the cardi. He really was so predictable. And sometimes frustrating. But never boring.

John sat in the chair and stared at him with his wide eyed stare. Ok, that really was rather like a teddy bear.

"Well," said John, "should I get the menus or do you know what you want?"

Sherlock's chest was disconcertingly bare although it was rather chilly in the room. He was wearing pajama bottoms, thank God, and a dressing gown. He was cold. Even John, unobservant John, was aware of the faint pattern of goose bumps on his chest.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, put on a shirt. You're cold."

That was so John, fussing about him. Telling him when he was cold, when he was hungry, when he was tired.

Not when he was rained on. Even Sherlock focused enough on his own body when he was being rained upon. Getting him blankets, making sure that he actually put a piece of orange chicken in his mouth, chewed it and swallowed it instead of arranging the chunks on his plate into the path of the tube stations between where they were and Mornington Crescent.

And suddenly Sherlock knew. Knew absolutely that he was in love with John Watson. Deeply in love. That thing he had never believed in. Scoffing at weak people who thought that endorphins and serotonin was an emotion. He'd never found empirical evidence of "being in love" and yet he suddenly knew what it was. That the sight of John, the sound of his voice, his comforting smell, left a warm and winded sensation in his chest. And that the thought of John with women filled him with a sharp and violent pain. He _was_ sick. And distracted.

What should he do? Shut himself away until this sickness passed? And yet he knew somehow that it would only grow stronger without the reality of John there, being annoying and sometimes thick. Grow into something desperate.

Leave the flat? Kick John out of the flat? He always knew what to do (well, sometimes he apparently said the wrong thing and John again, dear John would gently smooth it over, explain where he'd gone wrong).

John was also straight. Firmly on that end of the spectrum. Well, so supposedly were some of the men that Sherlock had had sex with, who had said the same thing, but with the right influence had seen the fallacy of their rigidity and enjoyed it. Enjoyed Sherlock.

He thought back on all of the tricks he'd used in the past, the voice, the smile, the tiny touches. None of those would work on John because he'd seen them used, _and_ because he didn't want to manipulate John into bed.

Because he was Sherlock Holmes, all of this passed through his head in a matter of seconds. But even so, John had gone off to the kitchen to find the menus, although they were actually on the coffee table.

John came back in. "Do you know where…oh, there they are…"

Sherlock found he couldn't look at John, didn't dare. He sat up and stared dully at the floor his hands buried in his hair.

John knew that something was wrong. Something had changed in the air. He was generally better at that kind of observation than Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed wilted. Smaller than himself, the cocksure self. Had something gone wrong, had someone died? Mycroft? John knew from his relationship with his own sister that Mycroft and Sherlock loved and cared about each other very much even if they couldn't stand one another. He looked about for the phones, his, Sherlock's, a couple of others that Sherlock kept for alternate numbers, but they were all scattered about the room away from Sherlock.

Unless Sherlock had thrown it. But he would have heard that. Sherlock threw with force.

He sat down next to his friend on the sofa and gently touched his back.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

To his surprise Sherlock went rigid and pulled away from him.

In a very low voice Sherlock said, "I've just discovered something about myself, John, and I may need to go away. Possibly for a very long time."

John's heart lurched. He felt a little sick. "But why? Is it a case? Can we go together? Will you send for me." He realized he was babbling a little.

"No, John. I need to get away from London for awhile. I think it's bad for me."

In a very tiny voice John said, "Away from me?"

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John. He was almost crying.

"Oh, John," he said, "If you only knew. You would hate me and maybe fear me. It isn't you at all that I'm running from." It's from myself."

Sherlock ached. He knew he'd hurt John and scared him. He wanted nothing more than to lean into John's shoulder and rest there. He suddenly felt desperately tired.

And then John suddenly pulled Sherlock to him.

John rested his head on top of Sherlock's. "I will never hate you or fear you, Sherlock. You are such a good and dear person. You are not Moriarty. You are not a sociopath. You are brilliant and funny and…beautiful, so, so beautiful."

Sherlock's eyes opened. Had John really just said that? Did he mean beautiful inside? Sherlock could never tell about these things.


	5. It's Been Awhile

He looked up at John from under a fringe of hair. And John was staring at him. And John slid one hand onto his bare chest, and then they were kissing. Like he'd kissed so many people before. But totally different. Soft and soothing and yet exciting too, like being carried somewhere as a child.

Without his mouth leaving John's he twisted himself so they were sort of facing. He hugged John in his long arms, tightly and realized he did want John, very much. That the thought of John touching him was suddenly very exciting indeed. He counted backwards to the last time he'd had sex. Sometime before John had come into his life. Was this just a physical need, triggered by a kiss? But John thought he was straight. They could go on like this, just loving each other and he wouldn't scare him or try to persuade him.

But John's hand was on his chest and he realized John was tracing it up, up to his collar bone and his sensitive throat. And he shuddered. He couldn't help himself.

John moved his mouth down to Sherlock's neck, nuzzling it and breathing into it. "I want you, you know," he said. I think I've wanted you since the first moment you spoke. So brilliant and then you looked at me and your collar was open and you were smiling with your full lips and the light hit your cheekbones. But I thought it couldn't be."

Sherlock pulled John's shirt from his pants, slid his cold hands inside and over John's back making John shiver. Ran a finger along John's spine

"Do you want to go to my bedroom, John?"

John realized as he staggered after Sherlock, still holding his hand, that he had never, ever seen the inside of Sherlock's room, although Sherlock had come bounding into his often enough, usually without knocking.

It was as cluttered and random as the sitting room, and yet strangely austere. Perhaps because Sherlock spent so little time in there. The bed was a single which made John giggle a little.

Sherlock turned to him and silently, solemnly pulled his shirt and cardigan off of him.

They stood face to face in only their pants. Sherlock barefoot, and John in his shoes. John kicked off his shoes.

Sherlock went to work on his belt as he reached over to undo the string of Sherlock's pajama pants. Sherlock wore no underwear. Why did that not surprise him? Although it did startle him. The sight of another man's penis, erect and erect for him. He hesitated and Sherlock stopped.

"I'm sorry John. Are we moving too fast? We can just kiss, or cuddle, or whatever you want."

John grabbed him and kissed him. Ran his hands along his back down to cup his buttocks. John ripped at his own zipper and staggered out of his pants. Sherlock lay back on the bed and brought up his knees.

John was surprised, but moved between Sherlock's legs anyway. He was perhaps startled that Sherlock seemed so knowledgeable about these things.

"Just put a little spit on it, and go slowly and gently. It's been awhile."

"It's been awhile?" thought John. But he spit in his hand and slid himself into Sherlock, groaning at the tightness of it, the thrill of it. He also knew he wasn't going to last long. Sherlock started him, moving his hips against him and John quickly picked up the rhythm of it, easing in and out. He clutched at Sherlock's chest, at his hair, kissed him hard, thrusting his tongue in his mouth. Sherlock clutched at his back, brought his knees up tighter around him tightening and John came with a roar, his hips bucking uncontrollably.

He fell onto Sherlock and the other man cradled him gently.

After a few moments of near insensibility, John realized that Sherlock was still hard, unsatisfied. He slid his hands down to caress Sherlock's penis. Sherlock threw his head back and moaned. Goaded on by the sound, John stroked harder and then slid down. He wasn't quite sure what the correct protocol was. He tried to think back on the times when the situation was reversed-when he was with girls. Usually he asked, but Sherlock was asking in a way and he wasn't going to make him beg. The thought was unbearable. He lowered his head.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "John, you don't have to, really. It's fine."

John looked up, "But I want to." And he took Sherlock's cock in his mouth again. He could only take a little before his gag reflex kicked in, but what he could reach he stroked with his tongue, sucked in his cheeks, remembered what he liked and applied it.

"John, John, I can't hold back. John you should stop, it's… it's not always to everyone's taste, so to speak." John just held him in his mouth. He glanced up at Sherlock's face, caught in a desperate grimace. John sucked harder, stroked the base, and Sherlock came violently gasping and grunting, shuddering and whimpering.

Sherlock was right. It was not an altogether pleasant taste, but the look on Sherlock's face was completely worth it.

Sherlock rolled to his side. His penis throbbed with heightened sensitivity. He thought he would burn up if anyone touched him at that moment. He felt the air shift over him as John left the narrow bed and it made him suck in his breath. John was not a master. John was completely inexperienced and awkward, although with male instinct he had done what he liked having done to him. It was the best orgasm of Sherlock's life. This then was what being in love did. Took everything routine and basic and made it better.

John returned with a glass of water and a dishtowel. At the sight of him, still in his socks and still slightly hard, Sherlock burst into inexplicably joyous laughter. And after a moment John laughed with him too.


	6. He Wanted it Back

Later, much later, they sat in the sitting room eating Chinese takeaway out of cartons with chopsticks which Sherlock was adept at, of course, and John was muddling through. The TV was on but silent and cast cool blue and black shadows over them contrasting with the small fire in the grate on the other side.

"Sherlock," said John, "um…have you had a lot of sex with men?"

Sherlock looked away for a moment, possibly for the first time in his life slightly embarrassed. "I've had sex with a lot of people, John. One does have needs. Even I must occasionally eat," he gestured at his carton. "Sleep," he gestured at the bedroom, "and find release," he gestured vaguely in the direction of his crotch, which distracted John momentarily as Sherlock's loose robe revealed a band of soft, skinny, creamy white thigh. "When I was in college I pursued it as research. I experimented extensively. Were women better than men, was a certain position better, etc.? I became…quite adept, or so observation has told me. After all, what is the point of pursuing an activity if one isn't going to excel in it?"

"What did you discover?"

"Men are generally easier to pull than women and easier to get rid of, although not always," he began in his slightly bored clinical voice, "No matter what a woman tells you she generally does want romance, although this is not always true either. Threesomes are distracting and more than three is messy. Toys are mostly pointless to the ultimate pleasure but can be used effectively. I don't enjoy BDSM as I bruise rather easily," he held up a bruised wrist to demonstrate, where his arms had been held above his head by John, "but I can see its appeal in certain kinds or relationships."

He started to go on but realized that John was gaping at him with something like horror.

"And that sex with someone you love is better than anything else you can do." He gazed pointedly at John, who unfortunately at that moment was toying the blanket wrapped around his legs.

"Sherlock, was this…fulfilling a physical need to you?"

"Oh, no, John," he cried out. "You are the most basic need of all. You are my air. Without you I would die."

* * *

About a week or so later John made a decision. "Sherlock," he paused, "I'd like you to teach me to be, um, a bottom…"

"John, you really don't need to. I'm very happy with the way things are."

"I know I don't have to, but I want to. To share that with you."

Sherlock kissed him and caressed him for what seemed like hours until John felt like he would have let him do nearly anything if only to ease the desperate excitement he felt.

"I'm just trying to relax you, John. Let me know at any point if you want to stop. You may feel a little pain at first, and then a lot of pressure" Sherlock, who had finally, a few days earlier, admitted that perhaps some lube would be nice, fetched it now and softly coated both himself and John. Sherlock gently opened John and worked himself in very slowly.

Sherlock was right, the pressure was intense, like nothing John had ever experienced. But in his heightened state of arousal it stirred him further and deeper into erotic tension.

Sherlock began to move very gently. "Please, John, don't be strong. If it's too much at any point, please tell me."

"No, no, don't stop. Please don't stop," groaned John.

For a few minutes there was only the sound of their ragged and labored breathing. Suddenly Sherlock paused, "John," he said through gritted teeth, "I'm going to come soon. I will thrust faster. I will get bigger and harder and the pressure will increase. Do you still want me to go on? We can work up to it."

"Oh, God, Sherlock, don't be noble—it doesn't suit you—fuck me and come."

The pressure built until John thought he would have to stop Sherlock until with something between a whimper and a moan the other man convulsed and came, deep inside his lover.

John gasped at the exquisite pleasure, the unbelievable closeness, as Sherlock collapsed on him, coating his face, his neck, with kisses.

"John," he murmured, "I'm going to pull out now. Trust me; it will be strange for a moment."

Sherlock was right of course, as he always was. The sudden absence was startling, as if he had lost something, some part of himself. And he wanted it back.


	7. Never, Ever

Life on the outside continued much the same. They did not tell anyone. They did not hold each other on the street. John stopped denying that they were a couple but few people noticed. Sherlock did not like to be an open book, and really, neither did John.

They moved up to John's room where there was a double bed and they were nearer to the bathroom. John's regimentally neat room soon became untidy with stray mugs of molding half drunk tea and scientific texts which John would move back downstairs with only a modicum of good grace.

Sherlock shared his research with John, on technique, positioning, restraint. How to hold a man back and bring him the most pleasure. Even how to please a woman. John was an eager student. He might not be able to learn to use chopsticks or to deduct from minute bits of information, but he could learn this, although he seriously doubted he would ever be with any man besides Sherlock and probably not with any woman.

"Just flick your tongue across the tip, John. It's very sensitive in women, and I've never met a woman who really wanted you to start bashing away at it. I think it makes them numb. Yes, just like that, and then take it slightly in your mouth. And oh, John, I think we're going to have to stop that lesson for today, no, no, don't stop."

Mrs. Hudson surely knew, or at least suspected strongly, but refrained from saying.

Mycroft, of course.

John sat across from him awkwardly in one of their meetings/kidnappings, surprisingly in Mycroft's office.

"How are my brother's needs, these days? Fulfilling them, is he?" said Mycroft drily.

John's head snapped up, but Mycroft was pointedly looking at his phone and John was dismissed.

Perhaps the guiding hand on the small of the back or the shoulder lingered a little longer than before. Or smiles were shared like a secret joke, but to Anderson, Donovan and the rest it was inconceivable that Sherlock could have a sex life, let alone a love life. And John was just ordinary John—Sherlock's pet.

Lestrade suspected because he cared so deeply about both men. He realized that he would gladly trust either of them with his life. And it made him happy to see them more relaxed, both drawn out of their protective shells. Whether that was due to a deep friendship or something more he felt he didn't need to know.

Interestingly it was people who didn't know them at all that were most certain. People who saw them in the hallway at the hospital or the police station recognized an intimacy that was oblivious to those who felt they knew their personalities.

Sherlock still disappeared for half the night on some case or other to John's horror and fury. And John still leapt out of bed or dropped whatever he was doing to dash away to Sherlock's summons even when angry.

**Don't wait up. I will wake you with my tongue when I get home.**

**SH**

**Oh, and get eggs and bread. You can make eggs in a basket in the morning.**

**SH**

**I just bought eggs yesterday?**

**JW**

**I used those to run some velocity tests, and the bread proved very susceptible to mold under the right conditions.**

**SH**

**What conditions—our kitchen?**

**JW**

Often, after one of these times he would be directed—urgently—to a small French bistro in South Ken. where the owner who, of course, owed Sherlock would guide him to a table in the dark back where no one could see them and Sherlock would slip his hand over John's because he knew John liked it. And slip his foot across John's legs because they both liked it.

**Your face last night as you came was indescribable.**

**JW**

**Nothing is indescribable, John—abandoned, animalistic, beatific, carnal, delirious, frenzied?**

**Do try to find the right words, John. It's what makes your blog so boring.**

**But I will try to make the same face tonight.**

**SH**

And sometimes, when John was at work, he would think of Sherlock the night before, under John, on his knees gnawing on one knuckle to keep from screaming, whimpering anyway and bunching the bed sheets with his other hand. John would get so hard he would be afraid to stand up to see patients. Sometimes he would even need to go to the bathroom to jerk off, falling against the cool wall of the stall, gasping. At those times he liked to sext Sherlock, who found the trend "fascinating," knowing that Sherlock was at a crime scene or at the lab with Molly.

**Need you inside me tonight. Want to taste you as you come.**

**JW**

**Pick up Indian on the way home.**

**JW**

Once when Lestrade came to call and Sherlock was dashing out the door, Lestrade already half way down the stair, Sherlock rushed back in as he had done that first time only to fiercely kiss John and then was away again, leaving John standing clutching the dish he was drying afraid he would drop it.

And Sherlock was never, ever bored.

One night when John was snoring on the couch and Sherlock was working at his website, he looked over at John's form with that burning love that had never left his heart. John was surely a distraction, and Sherlock knew that he wasn't always as sharp as he had been because of his thoughts of John and protecting John. With a terrible stab that twisted in his gut, he realized that if anyone really wanted to get to him, really destroy him they would get to him through John. And what was worse, he wouldn't have the skills he needed to save John because he would be too distracted, too emotional. And that that must never, ever happen.

John woke with a snort, gesturing at the menus he asked, "What would it be tonight?"


End file.
